


9-5-13

by lilliquinn



Category: Personal - Fandom
Genre: ADHD, Addiction, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Other, Sad, Self Harm, autobio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2210040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilliquinn/pseuds/lilliquinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I messed up</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or, a nonfiction account of my life</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The fifth of September, 2013, was when I messed up.

I hadn’t realized that that was what was going to happen, or the consequences that it would have. I was upset: I didn’t love my girlfriend, I was in High School now, and my generally awful anxiety was upped by medication that numbed my depression (we didn’t know that it did that to my worries).

I was a self harmer, and, having stolen a boxcutter blade from my 9 year old brother’s toolbox (who gives a nine-year-old that kind of toolbox, anyways? They should give it to someone more responsible. Like me.), I decided, in a strange, euphoric buzz, that I would use it.

It was too deep.

It was too deep. Almost 2 inches long, and nearly an inch wide. I could see the fat bubbles, and the anxiety that had prompted me to do this to myself shrieked and recoiled at the consequences.

It was wrong, it was all wrong, It was awful, horrible, terrifying terrifying terrifying...

I stumbled into the bathroom, and was so nauseous from terror and dread that I saw black spots. Every move I made was amplified, and the ugly, horror-movie-esque gash on my hip was even more so. The bathroom was, and is, tan and white, and the bright red stood out too much it was too much what have I done what have I done what have I done? It was too much.

I walked into my parent’s room, serene and calm, flopping down on my good side onto their bed.

“Mom, dad, I fucked up really bad.”

The response was immediate and horrified.

“Pills? “

“Are you dying?”

“What’s wrong?”

and I showed them the too-long, too-wide cut on my left side. I could barely feel it anymore.

I was shaking, and everything seemed washed out and too fast.

My dad went to check my room, while my mom drove me to the ER.

We were driving for a little while, but I only remember sobbing without feeling anything, and her being too calm about it.

The Emergency Room was too quiet at 11 pm. I had to tell them why I was there, and what I needed, and I was so in shock that my mom had to tell them for me. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye.

We waited 20 minutes, in which I laid down on a marginally padded bench and cleaning products assaulted my nasal canals. There was no talking, until a boy from one of my classes asked if I was okay. I later learned that he was there for a concussion.

“Yeah.” My voice was too light, too calm. It wasn’t mine. None of this was mine. My body wasn’t mine.

I was called into a small office and was forced to recount my own story. I was so nervous I threw up.

More waiting.

I was called in, finally, and they lay me down.

I was shaking so violently my mother had to hold me. I had never been that cold before, and I was dying I was dying and that’s not what I wanted I didn’t want that....

They pulled down my sweatpants to show the gash.

They said 7 stitches.

Seven was my lucky number.

How ironic.

I’m terrified of needles, and they gave me anaesthetic, and they pushed those needles bone-deep, flooding me with the worst pain and then numbness.

It was horrifying. I tried not to cry too loudly, in case I disturbed anyone, but at that point I wasn’t self-aware at all, could barely hear my own voice or the nurse’s or my mother’s. It was so long, and the slight tugging was unnerving, and it was so cold that I couldn’t breathe, and eventually it was over. I was wearing my favorite coat and fuzzy leopard print slippers, and a blue thread that tied my skin together.

I was still nauseous, and they gave me a pink pill that they said tasted like strawberries, which might have if it wasn’t so gritty and my mouth didn’t still taste of vomit from two hours previous.

I crawled into my parent’s bed, and had no dreams

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a few years ago

I’ve dealt with anxieties for a while, alongside my depression and ADHD.   
In second grade, I remember not wanting to talk to anyone until they sent me to the counselor. I ‘knew too much stuff” I said. What that “stuff” was was simply everything.  
I nearly skipped second grade, and was put into a Gifted program, so maybe I was right about that.  
In third grade I was devastated and extremely lonely and angry when my brother was born, to the point that I needed therapy.  
In fourth grade, I started becoming an outcast, certain that everyone noticed all the bad things about me and didn’t want to be near me, so why try to socialize?  
In 5th grade, I started getting acne, and I bit a girl who made fun of me. Suspended for 2 days.  
In 6th grade, I couldn’t focus long enough to do anything. I started failing classes. I got my period in January, and was so ashamed and ‘icked-out’ by it that I didn’t tell my mom until March, and only because she asked.   
In 7th grade, I was starting my true path to caginess and distrust. I was usually filled with a hyper, bouncy energy, much like I had been for years around my friends, but it started to seem fake.  
In 8th grade everything fell to pieces.

 

I still go with the fact that middle school was the worst time of my life, the second two years especially.   
The last year, though, was a killer.  
I was bullied, got a girlfriend, then came out (the story involves throwing green glitter on my mom), began to have memory problems, began coaching my 3 suicidal friends through life, while feeling rather suicidal myself. (I’ll elaborate later).   
I gave out help to everyone, and no one even bothered to help me. I was then dumped. I made a ‘depression blog’ (which I’ll talk about later), I saw a therapist once a month or two.   
She was awful.   
I got a girlfriend and was put on Lexapro, which made me numb and manic to the point that I would interrupt classes to argue loudly with whoever would dare mess with me, writing profanities on my shirt and knuckles, and vehemently hated myself while staying numb. Everything from Lexapro is a blur, especially as it made my memory problems worse, but I remember I started self harming on April 17th, 2013, while on Lexapro.   
I was quickly taken off, and as I was slowly weaning off Lexapro, I was put on Welbutrin.   
I was even more manic. I cut more, I yelled a lot, and I vaguely remember drawing ducks all over a teacher’s chalkboard and painting “FUCK” in bright blue paint, which almost got me suspended except it was my last day of school.   
I didn’t have to take Lexapro after that.  
I stayed on Welbutrin, though, which worked as an antidepressant but not an anti-anxiety med.   
I stopped self-harming for 47 days, but still cherished the days I wasn’t clean. It was like a game, a secret that was all mine, and I still feel a sick sense of endorphin-rush nostalgia towards those days and feel disgusted with myself.

The second day of freshman year sent me to the Emergency Room.   
By then, I had a huge stash of things I could use to hurt myself: I gave myself eraser burns, hit myself with a hammer or rock, and had about 46 razors of all kinds, in a box under my dresser.  
The day after, I was sent to a different hospital for a psychological evaluation. I wasn’t allowed my iPod, in case I tried to hurt myself with it or tried to contact someone. No one was allowed to know.   
I sang little songs under my breath out the window to the sky, and was struck with how beautiful everything was as we pulled into the hospital parking lot. They took blood tests and urine tests, and I was terrified that I wasn’t going to come back out, which was a possibility.  
But I did.   
Back home, I wasn’t allowed anything. My parents scoured my room, opening The Box before throwing i away, which relieved me and triggered a small panicky response at the same time. They took away pens and pencils.   
They confiscated my phone and all Internet privileges so I couldn’t contact anyone. I was terrified and sad, and now completely alone.  
We never told my brother what happened. I don’t know how much he knows.   
I do know that I’m not allowed to wear swimsuit bottoms, or have a door, or have a pencil sharpener, scissors, and/or knives for more that a few minutes at a time, or talk openly about my experiences.   
I do know that I’m one of the luckier ones.


End file.
